This is me.

I am the award-winning author of 22 books, editorial director of the PBS arts and culture show "Articulate with Jim Cotter," an adjunct teacher at the University of Pennsylvania, a co-founder of Juncture Workshops, an essayist for the Philadelphia Inquirer, and a book reviewer for the Chicago Tribune. I take photographs. I hope for peace. All blog text and photographs copyrighted.

Tell the Truth. Make It. Matter.

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Five-day in person memoir workshops. Monthly memoir newsletter

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HANDLING THE TRUTH: on the making of memoir

Winner, Books for a Better Life/Motivational Award. Named Top Writing Book by Poets and Writers. Featured in O Magazine. Starred Reviews from Library Journal and Kirkus, a Top Ten September Book at BookPage. For more on this book please tap the image.

This Is the Story of You

"This beautifully written book works on many levels and is rich in its characterization, emotion, language, and hint of mystery." SLJ Starred Review. “A masterful exploration of nature's power to shake human foundations, literal and figurative.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review. "Kephart (One Stolen Thing) establishes relatable characters and a poetic style that artfully blend the island days before and after the storm.” — Publishers Weekly. A Junior Library Guild and Scholstic Book Club selection. Chronicle Books. Click on the image to learn more.

LOVE: A Philadelphia Affair

"... another excellent nonfiction book for the general reader." Library Journal. LOVE is the Upper Dublin/Wissahickon Valley Libraries Let's DIscuss It Pick. More more on the book and events, click on the image.

One Thing Stolen

2016 TAYSHAS Reading List, Parents' Choice Gold Medal Selection. Shelf Awareness Starred Review. Booklist Starred Review: "An enigmatic, atmospheric, and beautifully written tale." "Kephart at her poetic and powerful best. ONE THING STOLEN is a masterwork—a nest of beauty and loss, a flood of passion so sweet one can taste it. This is no ordinary book. It fits into no box. It is its own box—its own language." — A.S. King. Amazon Editor's April Pick. Top 14 Teen April Novel, by Bustle. Find out more about this Florence novel, due out from Chronicle Books in April 2015, by clicking on the image.

Going Over

GOING OVER is a 2014 Booklist Editors' Choice, the Gold Medal Winner/Historical Fiction/Parents' Choice Awards, an ABA Best Books for Children & Teens, 2015 TAYSHAS Reading List, YALSA BFYA selection, a Junior Library Guild selection,voted as a 100 Children's Books to Read in a Lifetime, a Booklist Top Ten Historical Novel for Youth, a School Library Journal Pick of the Day, an Amazon Big Spring Book, an iBooks Spring's Biggest Book, and has received starred reviews from Booklist, School Library Journal, and Shelf Awareness.. Click on the image for more information.

FLOW: Now available as a paperback!

"There is no more profound or moving exploration of Philadelphia’s history."—Nathaniel Popkin Originally released in 2007, Flow is now available as an affordable paperback. More on this book—the autobiography of a Philadelphia river—can be found by clicking on the image.

Nest. Flight. Sky.

NOW AVAILABLE through Audibles."... strives to give all those who grieve the hope that there is peace, a peace that we can live with and thrive with, as long as we remember to breathe and be alive." — Savvy Verse and Wit. Click the link to get your copy for just $2.99

Friday, March 16, 2018

What a blessing it is to work with Sandra Tyler at Woven Tale Press. She looks at every word, scours every sentence, asks, and asks with kindness. "Clean," my essay up today on her beautiful literary site, is so much better for having had her graceful interventions.

Friday, March 9, 2018

My husband's illustration inspired us at Penn again. My husband, whose illustrations will also appear in Wild Blues, due out in June. (This man is good. Check this out, below, and then imagine that fox in color.)

This time I also share with you some of the work of my glorious honors/independent studies students.

I'm so lucky, right?

Daddy kept the AXE
hair gel on the top shelf, said it was his, but Ryan wasn’t so sure. A second
grader only has so many tricks to pull—new t-shirt, new kicks—before his style
gets old. Even Fanny Wiggins walked past him on the playground to go run
through the old pothole. But one else in the class used hair gel yet. He’d be
the coolest thing since dino nuggets.

Lauren

He strides to the
plate, smirking at the rest of his team with a knowing look. He is the kickball
king of Linden Elementary School, and he knows it. The girls in his fourth
grade class swoon as he walks the baseline, bending his right knee to prepare
for the pitch. With a resounding smack, the toe of his Converse collides with
the red rubber and sends the ball into orbit, soaring high above the heads of
the pinnie-team like a meteorite thrust into some new gravitational pull. He
struts around the bases, unconcerned, smugly jogging back to home base where he
scores yet another grand slam.

Erin F.

“Welp, I’m getting
out of here,” Darren says to his classmates as the bell rings at 3:15pm. Finally, it was time to relax, Friday was done and that meant the weekend was
here. Darren’s mind filled with thoughts of the amusement park he and his friends
were headed to on Saturday. Darren heads down the hallway, walking towards his locker contently. The sleep-deprivation from the long week had gotten to him, now it was time for
an escape.

Serena

His friends were playing on the playground behind him,
without him. He walked away. He heard Billy call out to him, and then a thud.
He turned around to find Billy had fallen off the swing set.
He was surprised to find he wasn’t that sad.

Aliya

John was the cool kid I wish I could be. He hung his wallet
on a chain and could tie up his yoyo string in the shape of the eiffle tower
and still have it bounce back. If I were John, I’d walk around with my nose in
the air too, knowing whatever trouble came my way was just passing turbulence.
I’m not john though. I’m John’s best friend, which makes me even lukier than
the cool kid I wish I could be.

Bri

Brows raised, head cocked, just like his father taught him.

“Never look ‘em in the eye, son,” he’d say. “Side eye says
it all.”

His mess of stiff black hair pulls him towards an alternate
expression, but his hunched, thin body remains still. Except for his left hand,
pale twitching, uncomfortable by his side.

Jane

He smirked that infuriating smirk, raising his eyebrows impossibly
high and drooping his eyelids in a way that said “I couldn’t care less” like
only Frank could do. Maybe he slouched his shoulders and hadn’t touched a
hairbrush in weeks. But Frank did care, his mother knew. Under that
stupid grin he always wore, she knew he didn’t like failing school. She
had caught him studying when he thought she was asleep. Why he wanted to
prove to the world that nothing mattered to him, she would never understand.

Becca

The boy didn’t mind
the outdoors. He knew his sister didn’t like it – too many bugs, she’d
say, and the sweltering sun would cause beads of sweat to appear on her face,
smudging her painstakingly drawn-on eyeliner. Unlike his sister, the boy
longed for the warmth of the sun’s rays on his face, the force of the untamed
wind pushing its way through his thick hair. The back of his shirt broke
free from his skin, seeming to ripple in the wind, while the front became
plastered to his chest.

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Let's pretend you want to read one of the most interesting, well-starred books released this very season. One of those, wait, did she really say that, did that really happen, do I really like this character who is lying so much and doing so much wrong and still so very empathetic novels?

Pietrzyk is the author of SILVER GIRL, a new novel set in
1980s Chicago during the time of the Tylenol murders. Her collection of short
stories THIS ANGEL ON MY CHEST won the 2015 Drue Heinz Literature Prize, and
she has published two previous novels. More information:
lesliepietrzyk.com

Kephart is the award-winning author of 22 books, co-founder
of Juncture Workshops, editorial director of the nationally syndicated arts and
culture show “Articulate with Jim Cotter,” a lecturer at the University of
Pennsylvania, and a frequent reviewer for Chicago
Tribune. She recently produced a truth-saturated workbook, TELL THE TRUTH. MAKE IT MATTER.

Don’t look to Leslie Pietrzyk for easy binaries. Don’t think
she has easy in her. In 2015 she won
the Drue Heinz Literature Prize for This Angel on My Chest —sixteen
stories whose subject matter—the early death of a husband—remained fixed while
the form, the mood, the accusations, the willingness to confess or not to
confess, to blame or to forgive, to tell the truth or to construct the truth
remained fluid.

Now, in February 2018, Pietrzyk has published, with Unnamed
Press, Silver Girl, a thrillingly
voicey novel featuring an unnamed narrator who will do almost
anything—monstrous anythings, if you’re measuring by sister and best-friend
standards—to cage the monster within. Anything so that she cannot disclose who
she actually is and where she actually came from and why she does what she
does. She’s at college when we first encounter her—forging a friendship with
the girl (this one has a name; her name is Jess) who declares, right up front, love, the word the narrator “longed most
to hear.”

Two best friends: like sisters. Except nobody is a sister
but a sister, and both Jess and our storyteller have sisters of their own,
complicating matters with implicating stories. Both also have histories with
men—and ideas about what a man might be, what a man should and should not be
trusted with.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, and this is starting to sound like a
review, and my point is that with sharp-tongued, sharp-edged episodes that defy
chronology and disclosure (but offer up out-of-sequence survival tips)
Pietrzyk’s narrator yields a careful, messy life. She has to destroy to live,
or so she thinks. She has to take to give. She has become systematically
unsympathetic until the frozen ice of her skin shatters and we see (and then
might choose to love) the actual person that she is.

Crazy, crazy, crazy. The word appears again and again in Silver Girl. As a joke. As a threat. As an amateur diagnosis. The
repetition is intentional, controlled, controlling. So are all the lies. “Most
about anyone leaves shit out when they’re telling stories and lies their ass
off,” a minor but major character says to a slightly younger version of our
unnamed. “That’s what a story is, a long, fearless lie unwinding.”

The lesson has been learned. The story has been made.

I met Pietrzyk years ago at Bread Loaf , where I was writing
truth and she was writing fiction. I’m still pondering truth and she’s still
bending it, and so I had some questions for her about the slippery slide that
fuels this most propulsive book.

Silver
Girl
is a deck of cards shuffled thrice. We have, in this order, a Prologue, The
Middle, The Beginning. The End. Where Every Story Truly Begins. We have, additionally,
time stamps, that come at the reader like this: fall, freshman year; fall,
junior year; winter, freshman year; winter, before college, and so on. Finally,
we have survival tips—numbered (for our narrator is a list maker) but presented
out of order. The question is: What calculations did you make as you were
sequencing this story on the page? How do the jumbled times and themes comment
on truth, memory, and trauma?

This is the only novel I’ve written out of order. Early on,
I simply wrote about these two girls, exploring the prickles of their
relationship and wandering through their lives by writing randomly to one-word prompts.
(I belong to a monthly prompt writing group.) I was no hurry for the bigger
story of the plot to arrive…until, suddenly, I was totally in a hurry to hone
in on the plot, feeling paralyzed by so much freedom (and so many pages of
hand-written material I was certain would burn in a fire or be lost in a
flood). What was my actual story? All along, I’d known three things: college
girls, Chicago, and the Tylenol murders. So I leaned into what had been
revealed in the prompt writing to discover the events of the story and to make meaning
of those events.

So that’s the structural answer. But more so, I think exploring
one’s life from a distance—as this narrator is doing—likely requires a sideways
approach, re-envisioning memories with a clearer, colder eye. And that means
all the memories, ALL of them. That’s painful work. The narrator’s revelations
on the page needed to mirror that difficult untangling, a sense of spinning
through time, literally being unable to tease out which was that first bad
turn. I often focus on characters longing to make sense of something awful from
a later, safer space, and in each of my books, time is a character of sorts,
the way other books might use weather as a character or the landscape. One of
my first writerly decisions is how much time will pass in the story I’m about
to tell. I ordered and reordered this book a hair-pulling amount of times.

What
about this word, crazy? What about the casual fling of “inappropriate” observations
about religion, sexuality, race? What about a narrator who can say “I didn’t
want to be evil, but I was.” What about the freedom you gave yourself to occupy
this narrator’s head without censure? What happens to a novel when the novelist
chooses to play by nobody’s rules?

From the beginning, I felt immense compassion for this troubled
and troubling girl. She sees herself as fighting the best she can to fit into a
world she doesn’t understand (though she imagines she does). Her immense desire
to escape made me view her as someone uninterested in the usual rules and best
practices. I also pondered the way literature’s males and females have
traditionally escaped, or, the “jump on a raft and head downriver” novel vs.
the “marriage plot” novel. Honestly, I wanted this girl to escape like a boy.
Once I understood that about her, I knew she was going for broke and that I’d
let her. It WAS liberating. I could never in a thousand years be so bold. Channeling
her determination and desperation set free the novel (and the novelist).

Since
we’re at it, you have never played by any rules. How did you learn that you
didn’t have to?

Ha! Growing up as a good girl of the Midwest, I’m pretty
sure I followed every rule there was. In my ordinary life I’m fairly rule-bound
(always on time, standing behind the yellow line, etc.). This Flaubert
quotation was pinned on my bulletin board to make me feel better about being so
hopelessly Midwestern: “Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be
violent and original in your work.” But it was around the time that I started
working on THIS ANGEL ON MY CHEST, stories about the too-soon death of my first
husband, that I started thinking about the “rules” of the writing life: the way
New York publishing works vs. the way art is created. My motivating principle
became something along the lines of, If I
were guaranteed of getting one last book published, what story would I want to
tell? (To be clear, I had no guarantee from anyone!) That focus offered
clarity and a powerful internal sense of, let’s
stop wasting time here. Amazing how easy it can be to shed rules when you
see how much time they waste.

“I
loved her in a fierce and confused way, like a sister,” the narrator tells us.
“I loved Jess for saving me from who I was.” What is a sister? What is a best
friend? What is sympathy, and what is empathy, and what is their role in this
novel?

These are questions I struggle with, which is why this story
grabbed me. I have one sister, younger, and while we’re very different
personalities, there’s a core of similarity between us. I wanted the narrator
to have this ace, a little sister who’s under-valued at the moment, as family
often may be when we’re young. I confess that for me, the best friend is
tricky. I have beloved female friends, but not the one and only, the true-blue,
the “spill all the secrets to” best friend, unwavering from grade school to
death. My past experience has led me to be wary of the “best friend”
relationship, which I lament. Isn’t that what we all want, one person who knows
and loves us for who we truly are? Is it even logical to expect such a thing?
To me, it’s such a miracle when it happens, and that’s the push and pull
between Jess and the narrator. They’re living in this miraculous—and fragile—space.

I have sympathy and empathy for each character in this book,
for all my characters; I doubt I could write effectively if I didn’t understand
who these people are and where they’re coming from. One of my favorite
observations about writing—and life—is that no one thinks they’re the villain.
It was important to me to expose at least one moment of vulnerability for every
character in the book, even those I wanted to despise.

In the novel, I longed to explore this tangle, where our
loyalties lie ultimately, what family can do and be that friends can’t, and, at
its core, pondering what might be left if there is no family. The popular idea
of family as savior is troublesome for those who grew up in a toxic situation
or for those whose family members have died or headed for the hills. Maybe they
won’t take you in when you show up. Saying we can simply “choose” our own
family, as advice columns often do, feels simplistic to me. My narrator wants
to connect, with no clear path to do so. How can the heart not ache at such a
simple desire?

What makes shame such a fascinating
story—to you, to us?

Shame takes us to our most vulnerable space, and when we’re
utterly vulnerable, we’re likely either to reveal our deepest selves or to lash
out in fear. Or both. That’s what I see this narrator doing. One of my favorite
exercises in a writing class is to ask everyone to think about the events from
their lives that are the most horrifying to them, the most shameful, the
stories that scare them, and to write a list no one will see. “That’s what you
should be writing about,” I say. There’s a moment of pure silence where I feel
them knowing I’m right.

“I
took a deep breath, feeling that superior look settle onto my face, that
careful, untouchable composition the only weapon I had, the only weapon I ever
had, that mask of utter boredom and vast superiority,” the narrator says, and
already, at this point, we understand the source of her badness, the degree of
her shame, the events from which she herself could not escape. You have written
a blaze of a novel about a seemingly unsympathetic character, and yet I sense
that you loved her deeply. Tell us more. Tell us why.

Absolutely: I do love her deeply. She’s the first character
I’ve missed writing about after finishing the book. (I even cheated on my
current novel-in-progress to write flash fiction about her!) I was pulling for
her as I wrote, even as writer-me loaded her with increasingly worrisome plot
turns. Like her, I showed up at college utterly ill-equipped, and I worked my
ass off trying to catch on to my new environment. I wasn’t the first in my
family to go to college, but both of my parents had been, and because no one
had explained anything to them, not much was explained to me. Now I understand
that most people feel unsteady at the beginning of any vast, new venture, but back
then I was certain I was the only one. That vulnerability, that deep desire,
that fear of being revealed as a fraud…I just wanted to hug this girl. She does
a lot of bad things, but I’m pretty sure we all do.

More
and more (and then some) the stories that are emerging—on the big screens and
little screens, in the memoirs and the essays, in the novels—center around
defiantly irredeemable characters who either ultimately do redeem themselves or
don’t bother to (or can’t). Why have we come to this? Why are we thrilled by
this? Have we lost our capacity for, or interest in, the authentic quest for
truth?

I’m a fan of several T.V shows featuring complicated, bold
antiheroes—The Sopranos, Breaking Bad,
Mad Men—the shows that arguably started the movement. Or did they? I know
now that for obvious reasons GONE WITH THE WIND is not a good role model of a
book (or movie), but as I grew up in Iowa, its antihero, the conniving and
crafty Scarlett O’Hara, influenced me tremendously. Intellectually, I got that
I shouldn’t want to emulate her; after all, sweet Melanie possessed Scarlett’s
same iron-core strength and resilience. Still, it was Scarlett inhabiting my
imagination, scaring me with the rawness of her desires (which were thrillingly
selfish). I’d like to see more portrayals of women that show us as the
complicated, challenging, flawed people we are, filled with rage and desire…not
just “moms” and objects of the male gaze. That’s an authentic quest for truth I
can get behind.

Or, maybe this is our authentic quest for truth, antiheroes worming
behind the façade of the life-is-good, happily-ever-after bullshit, returning
to the original Grimm brothers’ fairy tales, where at the wedding, Snow White’s
evil stepmother is forced to dance to her death wearing red-hot iron shoes. We
have to know in our hearts that life is not ONLY good, so let’s say so and
stare into that dark abyss. Or—maybe the thrill of irredeemable evil is the
only authentic truth we can accept during these coarse times. OR—maybe during
these coarse times, this darkness is what passes as authentic truth. These are
the questions that keep me writing.

Friday, February 23, 2018

Yesterday, after months of planning, I joined the English teachers of the T/E School District (K through 12) for a teach-the-teachers session. TELL THE TRUTH. MAKE IT MATTER. memoir writing workbooks had been ordered for each of the participants. My job was to connect many of the exercises inside that book to the books that children read. I chose, among others, BOAT OF DREAMS, TAR BEACH, FRIENDS, THE MEANING OF MAGGIE, RAIN REIGN, THE BOOK THIEF, and my own FLOW, GOING OVER, and THIS IS THE STORY OF YOU.

What a conversation we had. What work the teachers themselves produced. We moved from nonfiction into fiction, from fiction into truth, from history into the right now, from the personal to the public, from the silent fear to the empathetic gesture. There are few more delightful things for this teacher-reader-writer than to be among other devoted teachers-readers-writers. I was glad for all of it.

I left the program, spent an hour with my husband, then made the half hour drive to my father's home, where I have been spending so much of these past many weeks. I stayed until the near-dark, drove home in rush-hour rain, and dropped my bag on the floor. After a week of barely an hour or two of sleep each night, after so much TV work, so much other teaching, so much corporate America, so many recommendation letters, I was, for the moment, done.

"There's something for you from Jessica," my husband said.

"Really?" I said.

"Open it," he said.

I did. And here from our beloved Juncture friend (read her words in the sidebar here) was a beautiful card, a startling note, a book called RIVERS by Alison Townsend. Out in Wisconsin, Jessica had heard Alison read. Knowing my own obsession with rivers, my FLOW, Jessica had bought me Alison's book. Alison, as it turns out, knew something about me, a circle was drawn, a beginning touching an end touching a beginning, and flowing forward through our Jessica.

Monday, February 19, 2018

All throughout this semester we have paused to write a five-sentence story for an image. Most of the time we've used my husband's illustrations to spark the tale, and last week was no different.

What was different is that Katie, a student of many years ago, spent the first half hour of class time with us. Katie, my Katie, who inspired a key character in my novel One Thing Stolen and who has gone on to UCLA, where, as an intern in the OBGYN program, she is already delivering babies.

My students—of now, of then—are hope-yielding. Here, below, are some of their stories. (Katie wrote, too, but her handwriting is truly doctor-worthy, and I feared mis-transcribing her story here.)

I think
there is potential in blankness. Maybe I’ll draw something for you. Maybe I’ll
write you a song. But frankly, I think I will send you a million blanks so you
can imagine what each sheet is supposed to be. A flower, a poem, or perhaps an
origami dinosaur.

Gene

This substitute teacher thinks she can keep us from having fun. She thinks she
can seal the windows, close the blinds, wipe the board clean, and gaze down her
nose at all of us. Especially me. But what he doesn’t know is that our real
teacher is still here. If I listen, I can hear her questions, her corrections,
and most of all, the words she sends constantly floating through our air for us
to pluck out and use.

Catherine

She was watching. I nibbled on the edge of my ballpoint pen and began to write.
A story that never ends. It was
daunting, I could say that much. A precocious child though I was, I couldn't
see things through. I hadn't even been able to finish the 1000-word essay
prompts shoved at me last Christmas Eve.

Esther

He sits in his
room, poring over that horrible algebra textbook. Who knew seventh grade would
be so hard? His mother stands in the doorway to his room, watching him
frantically scribble, erase, scribble, erase, as if the pages wouldn't stay
still. He pictures the pages, fluttering from his desk, some awful tornado of
numbered sheets filled with equations amounting to an unintelligible other
language, one no amount of tutoring could help him unlock.

Erin F.

"You
have 45 minutes to complete your essays," my teacher announced. "Use
only pen and pick one of the provided prompts."

My eyes wiggled back and forth furiously, trying to read the page that sat on
my desk. I don't want to write any of this, I thought to myself.

"I just want to make my own decisions," I shouted, grasping my head
between my hands, as it filled with extraordinary innovation and creativity:
the two things my teacher would never see.

Ania

Two minutes before the bell rang, as Jared was shifting papers from side of his
desk to the other—too loudly—a gust of wind burst through the half-open window.
It blew the girls’ long hair from their faces, it riffed the proctor’s long,
pleated skirt, and it sent every page of Jared’s completed AP Literature exam
whipping across the rows of desks. As one, every head in the room turned toward
him. How Jared had managed to mess this up, no one was sure. One thing was
certain: their scores were cancelled.

Charlotte

Jonny
scratches his head and squints his eyes
I watch him struggle but I am unable to help him
I start to approach him as the words escape his mind
Much like the pages that escape him
Watching the words fly away like birds uncaged

Serena

Letters
swirl in my head, bouncing from one end of my skull to the other. I try
to make sense of them and put them on the page, but it isn’t working. It
rarely does. “Two minutes left,” the teacher calls, her high heels
clicking on the tiled floor as she paces around the room. “If you haven’t
written your conclusion yet, do that now.” I hear the clicking of the
heels get louder as she approaches. My heart pounds in my chest. I
only have one paragraph. She looks at my page and clucks her tongue in
disapproval.

Lexi

This was the
twenty-first letter the boy had written. They all started the same, with
the opening words, “Dear Mom,” and they all ended up the same, unreceived,
unopened, unread. The boy did not know who his mother was, nor did he
know where she was. The envelopes were marked in large 7-year-old print:
To Mom. The women at the orphanage didn’t have the heart to explain to
the boy that letters without an address could not be delivered, but they also
did not have the heart to throw away his carefully chosen words.

Becca

-->

My body is grounded in class but my head is
up in the clouds, brimming with the stories my mom reads to me every night.
Vivid pages of Kings and dragons and knights, faraway lands that are much more
interesting than the one I am currently stuck in: the land of math. My hand
reaches out and up to catch them all, to hold them close, when I hear my name
called.

"Oh! Derek, you know the answer?"

The stories are no help to me now, and they flutter away as my face flushes. I
do not know the answer.

Erin L.

My mother
insists on leaving the windows open and uncovered all day, all year. It's
beyond frustrating. With no blinds to protect me from the sun, I wake up at the
crack of dawn. In the winter, I freeze and my skin dries and cracks. It's
almost unlivable, but I learned long ago never to ask her why.

John

I tried my best. I really did. I poured my heart out onto those papers. Mrs. Drexler didn't care. She looked at my scattered papers with scorn. I knew she was happy to see me fail. — Isabella

Thursday, February 8, 2018

What if we only gave ourselves the task of writing a single beautiful sentence each day? I ponder that question, and interview Anna Badkhen about her new book, Fisherman's Blues, in this issue of Juncture Notes. Read more...

Friday, February 2, 2018

Again, I shared with my beautiful class an image that my husband had created.

Five minutes, I said. Write the story.

Here are some of the stories.

What is the story to you?

I see the people walking in
front of me, their eyes downcast, arms interlinked. My mother urges me to
move along, to catch up. We don’t want to be left behind, she tells
me. I’m not so sure I agree with her. I drag my feet along the uneven
path, my shoelace becoming undone in the process. It’s already lost most
of its original whiteness from the dozens of times it’s dragged through the
dirt. I idly wonder if, when we get to our destination, I will be able to
get a new pair of sneakers.

Lexi

I was quite unsure of where
my mama was taking me. We had walked downtown in all black clothes; she slicked
my hair back with her frail hands every few blocks. Eventually, I saw faces
that I recognized. They were all wearing black clothes... Just like me. Just
like mama. I recognized a tall woman with long black hair— my aunt. Her face
was more puffy than normal and her eyes were pricked with red. I wondered why
she was crying. I wondered why we were here, standing around, wearing black,
saying ‘sorry.’

Ania

We avoid it. The void of
light. No one should want to be found. To be found is to be known and to be
known is to be judged. And punishment is the inevitable nature of judgment’s
tight lips, loose gown, and stone grip of opinion.

Gene

"We're almost there.
Just keep going." The tall girl bent to whisper in my ear. her hand
rubbing "comforting" circles into my shoulder. Easy for her to say;
her long legs carried her closer to the promised land while my short, stubby
knees wobbled to catch up. There's nothing left in me, no energy to keep going,
no will to survive. "20 more miles." she whispers, seeing me struggle
to keep from stumbling.I just want her to stop talking.

Precious

In the darkness we crossed the lake, praying its frozen
crust wouldn't give way under our feet. It had been a warm few days, and the
ice groaned under our weight. However, a frigid death in the lake would be
better than what we left behind.

John

He kicked a rock down the
sidewalk, his boot making loud, angry impact with the curb. It hit the back of
his sister's shoe, and she twisted to throw a vicious look at him, but she
didn't say anything. His mother placed a quelling hand on his shoulder.
Whenever something like this happened, his father made his whole family go on
one of these walks. Whenever something like this happened, the silence was
complete.

Charlotte

His mother’s hand rests
lightly upon his shoulder, neither pushing him forward nor backwards. But
holding him in place. He does not want to go. He watches in trepidation as the
other children are herded towards the empty class full of possibility and
brimming with uncertainty. He remembers the stories his older sister tells him
of friends and colored squares and story-time, but all he really wants is to
sit on his mother’s lap, her arm clutched around him with the other balancing a
book, mouth spewing wonderful stories of dragons and knights. He never wants
her to let go.

Erin L.

A first funeral - at six, the
idea is beyond digestion, an aerial view from her mother's shoulders of the
devastation below. She has no emotional ties or any age, truly, to know what
she is seeing: a collage of photos of a happy man fishing, a photo with his
wife. A scene before her, in human form, a mother's hand on her crying son's
shoulder. All he can feel is the vastness of the room, its vacancy of color,
the darkness of black ties and tights and tight-lipped apologies for loss.

Erin F.

My fingers have gone through
my hair so many nervous times that I can feel it messy and spiky on my
forehead. I don’t have anything else left to grab on to. So I reach up,
straining my elbow to hold my wrist backwards, and take my sister’s hand. I
don’t want it sitting on my shoulder, guiding me like a pet dog with a leash. I
need to hold it, to touch reassurance, to grasp some of the resolve with which
she looks straight ahead, and walks.

Catherine

I see the people walking in
front of me, their eyes downcast, arms interlinked. My mother urges me to
move along, to catch up. We don’t want to be left behind, she tells
me. I’m not so sure I agree with her. I drag my feet along the uneven
path, my shoelace becoming undone in the process. It’s already lost most
of its original whiteness from the dozens of times it’s dragged through the dirt.
I idly wonder if, when we get to our destination, I will be able to get a new
pair of sneakers.

Lexi

The icy wind slapped Jacob in
the face, but the sting of the cold was nothing compared to the relentless burn
of hunger. Three days, they had been walking now. Three days with
barely any food, only what a resourceful few had thought to carry. His
mother rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Just a bit further,” she
said softly. “We’re almost there now.” Jacob wanted to believe her,
but how could he when his legs felt like lead and his shoes were torn and he
could still hear the screams they had left behind every time it got too quiet?

Becca

-->

They led the children up the mountain. Eyes lowered,
shoulders sagging. The rain was a cruel and infuriating thing. It trickled in
regular, ruthless rhythms down their backs, blurred out the temple standing
frowning at the summit. Even the High Priest's uncanny vision couldn't help
them glimpse the structure.

Esther

A few more steps and we will make it.
Hush, we have no choice but to leave.
Her daughter fears for her newborn kitten she left behind.
Will it survive, will it be warm?
Listen to your mother, she whispers, we must keep moving.

Serena

Pa said he would send money, he promised we would always be safe. Everything he said was a lie. He never came back, never sent help. Ashamed and humiliated my mom and I join the wanderers. Where will we go? What will we do? The future remains unclear. — Isabella

Friday, January 26, 2018

This Penn semester I'm teaching something new—wading into the land of middle grade and young adult writing with fifteen spectacular students. We're learning about character and voice from verse novels, in-the-round perspective from multiple-voice novels, dialogue and pacing from graphic novels. We're inviting Sara Novic into our fold. We're building personalities, landscapes, tensions, plots—and friendships.

Around a crowded table, we warm up with a five-minute-five-sentence exercise. An image is presented. A question is asked: What is the story?

The image above was created by my artist-husband. The words below come from a sampling of my students. They're pretty great, right? Teaching all of us how one frozen moment in time can mean many things to many people.

She begins a new job
in the same city, but somehow it feels like a completely new world. As she
watches the other adults go by, something in her shrinks and she reverts to
feeling small, young, scared. Her briefcase weighs on her like a suitcase, her
resume in hand turns into her beloved childhood stuffed animal, Maxie.

Jillian

Relative to her
height, the legs around her might as well have been a forest. The pant-legs
were saplings, and the skirts like old, stout, round trees. Afraid of losing
her grip on the small briefcase, she tightened her fingers until the knuckles
all blanched and the sweat in her palm had nowhere to go. In order to get out
of this crowd, Penelope thought, she was going to need to pick her way through
the forest.

Catherine

She had been walking for fifteen minutes when it first
occurred to her to look up. There had been a voice over the intercom, at first,
directing her back to her mother—she had been walking away from that. She and
her mother had gone to the mall to buy new shoes for school. Before they had
left, she had packed a suitcase with the essentials: goldfish crackers,
blanket, and two pairs of socks. Now, the girl was free.

Charlotte

She was on her way
home. Her mother said home was faces and so she looked up at the people walking
past her. Their faces spoke travel, work, and other things she could not
describe. She stood there with wonder and confusion and pondered over which
face to trust, which long leg to grasp. Then, she made her choice.

Gene

Does growing up mean growing tall?

Do we learn as our bodies grow?

Does small person mean small mind?

A young girl holds her stuffed animal by her side, and she
wants to loosen her grip, but doesn’t know how.

What can we learn about what can be lost from the gloss in
our eyes?

Jane

She'd begged her
mother for weeks to let her ride the subway on her own to school - a girl
always seeking to be older, imitating her father by using his old suitcase in
lieu of a backpack in preschool. After a persistent fight, she finds herself on
the platform of the 2, Uptown. And though she is in high school now, the
feeling of being absolutely lost makes her feel more like she's five than
fifteen. In the midst of the chaos, of adults transferring cars, squeezing
between commuters, she feels like her younger self, suitcase in hand, stuffed
animal tucked under her arm. And the boldness of her desire to be older is
overcome by the reality that she might still be a child.

Erin F.

Her mom had been wearing a skirt, Sarah thought. A black skirt. Tall blue jeans and cuff-linked arms carelessly pushed Sarah aside. She felt as though she were drowning in a sea of long legs and strange faces. Sarah squeezed her bunny tight against her chest and clutched her suitcase till her knuckles turned white. Mom would find her, she told herself, over and over again. Mom would find her.

Becca

A child can slip unnoticed through a sea of men and women. The girl looks up into the stratosphere, gazing in wonder at the adult faces and features so different than her own. She attempts to mimic their calm and collected seriousness as she wades among them, toting her father’s “very important” forgotten briefcase in one hand, her favorite stuffed dog fueling her confidence in the other.

Erin L.

My name is Edna and I am seven years old. Tensions in Poland are rising so my parents have sent me to stay with family in America. I just got off the boat with my toy bunny and suitcase. All around me are busy people, minding their own business. How will I ever find my uncle in this crowd? — Isabella

Saturday, January 20, 2018

A new middle-grade book is due out this year. A Caitlyn Dlouhy Book (Atheneum Books for Young Readers, Simon & Schuster). A book that has been in the making for many years. It brings together so much that I love (memories of my antiques-loving uncle, my Salvadoran husband's stories, the camping guide penned by my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart) and so much that I fear (dark caves and penetrating storms, random violence and untruths).

I can't wait to share the book with you, when it appears in June. But in the meantime, I have this jacket, so gorgeously illustrated by John Jay Cabuay and so magnificently—would the word be nurtured?—by Caitlyn and her team.

So many thanks, too, to Karen Grencik and Amy Rennert, for loving me through my books.

Finally, thanks to my husband for the stories, the trust, and the illustrations that he contributed to the pages of this book. They recall the evocative, fluid images he sent to me, years ago, when he was at Yale and I was in Philadelphia, waiting and waiting.

The jacket copy:

Choose.

That's what thirteen-year-old Lizzie's mom asks her to do as summer begins.

Lizzie chooses to stay with her uncle Davy and his cabin in the Adirondack wilds.

She chooses Matias Bondanza—Uncle Davy's neighbor, and her forever friend.

She chooses her survival guide, The Art of Keppy; scrambled eggs and pupusas; a big whale of a rock; the cool beneath trees.

But soon things happen that are beyond Lizzie's control. Things she could never have imagined.

Saturday, December 30, 2017

Last evening Bill and I met some 80 truth-seekers at the Johnson exhibition at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. We'd built custom workbooks inspired by ten of the works on display. We'd invited participants to connect the paintings (or, in one case, the Rodin sculpture) with specific (and personal) aspects of the year past—and the year to come.

There were to have been two sessions. Thirty people were expected for each. But by the time the first session was under way, we were nearly out of our 80 workbooks and deep into conversation with a four-year-old memoirist, a priest, a high-school teacher, a fitness instructor, a young woman who went back to school to face her nemesis (math) and discovered that she's actually quite mathematical, an English teacher, a music teacher, a recent high-school grad, and so many more. We were blessed by the enthusiasm for the program and the care that so many took to write, and I will never forget walking around that exhibit space watching perfect strangers connecting with themselves.

A good way to end this year, with thanks to Cat Ricketts, who makes everything so very grand.
Read more...

Monday, December 11, 2017

We invite you to join us on December 29, 2017 at the Philadelphia Museum of Art Final Fridays event, starting at 5:00 PM. We'll be using the Johnson exhibition as a way back to our own memories of the year that was, and those who join us will receive this workbook. Admission to the event is free after entry.

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Among the beautiful people we've lately come to know is one Cat Ricketts, who coordinates the evening programs at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. She'll hold ugly sweater parties. She'll host jazz musicians. She'll rock a room with a bossa nova quintet.

She'll also come up with some very spectacular ideas (with equally beautiful colleagues like Claire Oosterhoudt) for PMA's Final Friday events. I didn't know what Cat might have in mind when she got in touch with us several weeks ago. But when she invited us to be part of the line up for Get Your Om On (December 29, 2017), I said yes at once.

We've spent time with Cat and Claire in the meantime—developing a keepsake, memoir-twinged notebook inspired by the Johnson exhibit now on display in the Dorrance Galleries. I've done the writing. Bill's done the designing. Cat and Claire have done the fabulous hosting of our (eternally funky) ideas. Bill and I will both be there for the entire evening, giving out the notebooks, talking remembering and memoir, and listening to the stories those who come have to tell.

And so this is an invitation—a hope that you'll join us and the other artists on December 29, 2017 at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The fun begins at 5:00 PM and ends a little before 9:00 PM. Admission is free after entry. For the entire line-up, check out this link. Read more...

Sunday, November 19, 2017

We have returned from Sea Change, our memoir writing workshop by the sea. And oh what a sea change it was—for us all.

Each time I leave a workshop I leave stunned and grateful for the honesty of those who have come—for their willingness to reach, then reach again. We experienced transformations this past week of a nearly unearthly kind. Writers who found their stories. Writers who found their words. Reporters who became poets. Entertainers who struck at our hearts. Badassery latticed up with tenderness...and then some.

I barely sleep during these intense days. I am, by the end, on the edge of myself, the edge of each story, the edge of each truth. Where there once was blood there runs only an urgent hope that those who have joined us write big, write more, live whole.

Like a gymnast, I bend in all directions—I stretch, I fold. Sometimes, off that balance beam, I fall. I try one more trick, take one more leap, jump, turn, catch my toe, miss. That's me, the Beth Kephart I don't even really know until I'm the only Beth Kephart I am.

At the close of this session, the writers offered me a gift—their words turned toward me. These words below are from Louise, who has joined us now three times. Louise, who has found both her story and her words. I share them because they are for all of us—all of us who teach, all of us who hope, all of us who dare to want so much for the people we (we have no choice) do love.

We are given such glorious reasons to love. These women. Oh. These women.

Blank pages, open hearts, ready minds

We come to this place, to you

A safe harbor for our souls

Unsure, yet anxious to explore

We are transfixed, transformed

Torn down and built up

Love is at the core.

Juncture 21, our memoir newsletter, is now out and can be accessed here. Among other things we're featuring the poets Dan Simpson and Ona Gritz, who have written extraordinarily thoughtful words about the work they do alone and together. Dan and Ona's work provided touchstones for two of our writers this past week in Cape May. We returned to their words again and again.

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Quietly, determinedly, I have returned to the writing of essays. My pieces in the Philadelphia Inquirer becoming ever more personal. My research for fiction yielding explorations of the truth (in Woven Tale Press). And, this past week, the publication of an essay long in the making in LitHub.

Finding my voice again. Slowly.

The LitHub essay stems from years of reading and wondering about Paul Horgan. From a trip my husband and I took out west. From a letter that was sent to me from Andrew Wyeth's nephew. From my wondering, often, what really remains of writers once they are gone. And why.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

I am of the age of accumulations. Impressions, dreams, realizations,
friends. A clarified sense of the stuff of life that I willfully carry
forward.

Jessica Keener is part of that accumulation—a
photographer who posts bright blooming flower images on dark national
days, a woman with whom I once sat eating cupcakes in a Boston shop, a
writer whose books I have read, a friend with whom I talked long one
Saturday at noon, me on my phone in my Pennsylvania study, she on her
phone in her Boston.

I've written about Jessica and her books before. I've written about them here.

Today I'm writing about Jessica again because her second novel, Strangers in Budapest, is due out in less than a week, and good things are happening all around. The Chicago Review of Books and Real Simple have both named the novel an essential November read. The independent bookstores are ecstatic. Boston Magazine called Jessica's story "perfect page-turner for late autumn," while Publishers Weekly called the book "riveting" and "memorable."

I have risen at 3 AM these past few days to read Strangers in Budapest through.
I'd heard some of the stories of its making, heard of Jessica's great
gratitude for her agent and editor and publicist and early readers,
heard Jessica speak of her relationship to this tale.

But
every reader makes a story new and so I read this propulsive story
about a young American couple in a sizzling-hot Budapest of 1995 with
great eagerness to find out for myself just what is happening here. As
the story opens, Annie, the wife, is becoming involved with an old man
who is on the hunt for the man he believes married then murdered his
wheelchair-bound daughter—and later absconded with her money. Annie has secrets of her own, and concerns about her husband's
thus-far less-than-successful forays into Hungarian business
opportunities. Chased by her own past, Annie wants to do good. But will
good come from falling in with this old man's quest? And will Annie be
culpable for the consequences?

The story moves
quickly—the lives of seeming strangers soon entangling, the mysteries
never black or white, the confusions amplified by a city of Gypsies and a
melodic language and empty herringbone-floored apartments opening to
remarkable (but historically compromised) views. Budapest of 1995 is no
mere backwash in this novel. It is, in many ways, the engine—the
devastating history, the east versus the west, the strange mayoral
politics, the trade-offs and tarnish.

Jessica has
written it all with the knowledge of one who did indeed live in Budapest
years ago—as one who walked those floors and saw those monuments and
watched those lights on the castle at night. She has written the novel
authoritatively, I'm saying—a psychologically suspenseful, fast-moving
story in which all the pieces and parts come movingly together.

Strangers in Budapest is best read right now, when the chill in this November air will offset the heat on the pages.
Read more...

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Sometimes the very thing you were never looking for whips around the bend (it's windy that day, but there is sun) and finds you.

That is what happened a few weeks ago when Jim Cotter, the host of "Articulate with Jim Cotter," the nationally syndicated, Emmy® award-winning PBS arts and culture show, invited me to join his team as editorial director.

I'd been a guest on the show a few years ago. I'd attended a recent concert filming. I'd written a story about that experience for my monthly Philadelphia Inquirer column,and it was after that—before the Inky story even ran—that Jim asked if I'd meet him at a local coffee shop.

I had no idea what he wanted, but I said yes.

Since that day I've been saying yes to a lot of things. To scanning the arts horizon in search of innovators and storytellers whose ideas and ideals challenge (or affirm) the way we view our lives. To thinking about the processes that guide and fuel the work of writers, producers, shooters, animators, digitalists, and others. To learning how to write scripts so that I can teach the writing of scripts (how's that for rapid conversion?). To reaching out to those who know people who know ... who know. To sneaking books into the office, and possibilities—passages on the art of the essay, reviews of an author whose work deeply counts, tales of a musician with a story to tell. To learning from an uber fab executive producer (Tori Marchiony), a you-haven't-met-efficient/resourceful-until-you meet-her operations manager (Constance Kaita), and, of course, Jim himself.

It's been a deep immersion of a month. Here's what I already know: On the upper floors of an old mansion on Walnut Street there works and breathes a troupe (I'll use that word, for this is a cast of which I speak, this is theater within theater) of remarkably interesting people doing remarkably interesting work. They're out there talking to MacArthur geniuses and Pulitzer Prize winners, Daniel Handler and Gene Yang, Joyce Didonato and Jennifer Higdon, Watsky and Lisa Hannigan, Mark Mothersbaugh and Ani DiFranco, Andrew W.K. and Lauren Greenfield, Elizabeth Streb and, just this week (I was there, she was cool), the rising indie singer-songwriter Julien Baker.

Chances are that you can see the show on your local PBS station. If not, you can watch every segment here, at your leisure, at any time of restless day or sleepless night. Or join the Facebook page, here, where you'll get updates on segments, special treats, and all kinds of trivia with which to impress your friends.

And when you're sending me notes and I'm behind answering it's because, well, of this. I think it's a pretty fair trade—me sharing the show in exchange for me disappearing for stretches at a time. The show is more vivid, vibrant, and wow than I will ever be.